


The Game

by UglyWettieWrites



Series: The Game [1]
Category: Jean-Francois Mercier - Fandom, Spies of Warsaw
Genre: Ass Play, Cat and Mouse, Cock Worship, Erotica, Explicit Sex, F/M, Jean Francois Mercier, Smoking in bed, Teasing, UglyWettieWrites, afternoon delice, damn that fucking Frenchman, mild female dominance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-18
Updated: 2017-02-18
Packaged: 2018-09-25 06:12:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9806678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UglyWettieWrites/pseuds/UglyWettieWrites
Summary: In an indolent afternoon, Jean-Francois lets off some steam with a beautiful stranger.





	

Her limbs were heavy.

She walked around the corner,  and into the lavatory.

Although she had to urinate, it took a couple of seconds to relax and release. She studied the skin between her thighs. It was flushed with friction. Her cheeks twitched, but she did not smile. She wet a towel and cleaned herself, gasping as she wiped her still swollen folds.

When she walked out of the bathroom, she did not walk to him, but to the sitting room where her dress, stockings, and shoes were strewn.

They had started there.

She picked up her dress. Such a devastating frock – she had worn it after weeks of observation. She had studied what he liked, and succeeded. One shot, one kill, in a manner of speaking. Royal blue velvet. Silk. Perfume dotted on her naked shoulders. Long hair in glossy waves. Very like the woman he had lost.

She did brilliantly. She had been an actress first, before now. Before they had recruited her.

_One shot, one kill._

The hand holding the dress has tightened to a fist. She dropped it and tip-toed back through the darkened hallway. It was silent, but she smelled cigarette smoke. She peeked around the corner.

He was still naked. The damp sheets were tangled around his legs. The afternoon sun came through the windows, gilding him. His chest was mottled rose with sex flush. His dark pubic hair was still wet with her. Their tryst had begun and ended quickly, all savage kisses and thrusting – she hadn’t had time to explore him. One hand was behind his head, and another poised above his face, holding the cigarette.

His brow was furrowed with the simple pleasure of it, burning smoke and nicotine. His chest expanded, his flat belly tightened on the exhale. He lifted his knee to scratch an itch on his thigh. All these actions were in slow motion. Graceful. Free from self-consciousness. He grabbed the brass ashtray from the night table and put it on his chest, flicked the cigarette over it.

She had been with many men. Cultured men, dignitaries. Politicians. He was molded in a similar way, but he had a core of strength that mystified her. Not in the purely physical sense – it was a matter of figuring out the next move. He was no fool.

His languid movements were those of a man used to such exertions. He didn’t look the type to spill secrets after pleasurable muscle spasms.

The silky paper of his cigarette stuck to his lip, and it hung off rakishly as he adjusted his pinkie ring, an oddly endearing tableau. After, he scratched the scar on his side, a sensual thing, as the scar had healed long ago. She licked her lips. They were dry from her soft panting.

The frenchman was extraordinary.

Their coupling had been quick, and she had not had an orgasm. She leaned against the coolness of the wall and looked down at her body. Her hair tickled her nipples, which were still hard. She caressed her belly. It was firm, smooth, and it flared nicely to her hips. Wasted beauty, if he didn’t acknowledge it. She cupped her hand between her legs. She throbbed gently.

Even though it had been less than 20 minutes, why was it that she had forgotten his exact rhythm, or the way he tasted? She could remember a document after only a moment’s look, a whole conversation word for word even when she was in her cups, but she couldn’t recollect his scent.

She peeked again. He crushed his cigarette out and looked around him. Her brassiere was tangled in the sheets. He pulled it up, looked at the improbable lace that held up her breasts, then brought it to his nose. He took a deep breath, his eyes closed.

She should go, say it was a wash. It was the wisest thing to do for the cause, and for herself. Others had been business. He – Jean – was also business, but her mind was clouded. After three years of this, and years before in show business, she had convinced herself she’d gotten used to using her charms to get what she wanted. Sometimes it was horrible, sometimes it was fun. Mostly, it was a job.

Looking at him, she could only think of one kind of job.

She clenched her shapely thighs together, put her hands to her mouth to stifle a nervous giggle. She smelled herself…and him. She wanted more of him.

“Is that you, ma chère? Viens ici, je veux te voir.” I want to see you.

She walked around the corner and climbed on the bed, crawling to him. He put the ashtray back on the night table and reached for her, but she laced her fingers through his and pushed him back on the pillows.

“Reste-là,” she said, sitting between his thighs. Stay there.

“Bien sûr,” he said. He took another cigarette from a silver case and closed it with a snap, a smooth, practiced movement.

 _Heilige scheiße._ Holy shit _,_ he was a sight to behold. She ran her fingernails up his thighs to his knees, then back down.  He exhaled her a halo of smoke. It smelled turkish, a clue as to where he might have travelled and with whom in his tenure as officer…

She scooted forward, spreading her legs until his legs rested on hers.

“Interessant,” he said, but he smiled. She leaned forward to scratch very softly at his chest hair. His skin was soft, his hair deliciously silky. His pink nipples hardened. She swirled her tongue on one, eyes on his face. His eyelids drooped with sensation, his lips parted.

She took the cigarette from him. The tip was still damp from his saliva, from sitting on his lip, and even though he was hardening underneath her belly, it was the most erotic thing she’d felt thus far.

She would reset the encounter, do things her way this time. She blew smoke rings that dissipated on his chest. He reached for her, body tensed to take control, but she shook her head no. His eyebrow rose, but he took back his cigarette and relaxed.

She kissed his scar – light, quick kisses from his side up toward his heart. His scent, leather and heather and sweat.

Ah, sweat. She scooted down between his legs. She could smell herself, but he was there too. She had not taken him into her mouth before. He was semi-hard, pulsing harder in her gaze. She licked right above the root of his cock, where the hair was still damp. Musk filled her mouth and made it water. She swirled her tongue there, around the side, then under him. She licked his balls, sticky with her wetness, then under them, at the smooth taut space just above his asshole. He whimpered, spreading his legs even further, as this is something he had heard about from indiscreet soldiers, but never experienced for himself. He’d done it to women, but no woman – whore or not – had ever been so bold.

She swirled her tongue from asshole to bellybutton and back until she could no longer taste their sex. His salt was addictive. He was rock hard and dripping, but she had not yet put her hands or her mouth on him. The cigarette burned between his fingers, mostly ash.

Her cheeks, lips, buttocks tingled with blood. She licked up his thigh, delighting in the way his muscles twitched beneath the firm flesh. She bit gently down his other thigh until she was between his legs. She sucked on the skin of his balls, making his cock bob rhythmically. She liked the tender skin against her lips, and the sound of his breathing – quickening, desperate.

He put his hand on her shoulder. “Je t'en prie-”

“Tu m'en prie quoi?” She started to rub her lips on the underside of his cock – sucking then letting go, moving up a centimeter or two, then doing it again, and again…and again, until his precum dripped steadily and she could taste it.

“Suce-le,” he said, “Suck it.” He tugged on her hair.

“Not yet,” she said. She wrapped her fingers around the base of his balls and tugged until his cock lay flat against his belly.

“Putain!” he said, hissing breath between his teeth.

She smiled as she licked slowly up his shaft. He held his breath as she got close to the tip, but she stopped. He cursed underneath his breath, something she couldn’t make out.

He looked heartbroken when she sat up and moved from between his legs, but she quickly straddled him and took him in her hands. She leaned down to kiss him, sucking his lower lip into her mouth and tracing it with her tongue. She sat on him. He sighed into her mouth as her swollen, hot lips parted on his cock. He slid his tongue deep into her mouth, kissed her hungrily as she slid up and down his shaft. His hands moved to her hips, but she put them on her breasts. He kneaded, then tugged on her nipples.

She pulled him to sitting. “Suck them.”

He squeezed her breast, then took the nipple in his mouth, sucking hungrily. She pressed the head of his cock against her swollen clit, and danced little circles on it. The deliciousness of the sensation made her moan into his hair. She was close. She rubbed her clit against him in a quickening rhythm. Every time she caught herself on the edge of the crown of his cock it sent sparks of pleasure up her spine.

He had stopped sucking to look at her. His pupils were dilated, his face a mix of misery and wonder.

“Peux-tu le sentir?” she said in a hoarse whisper. Could he feel her clit, swollen and hot, against himself?

He kissed her neck and dug his fingers into her hips.

“Ouias, je peut.” His sweaty forehead slid against her shoulder. “je vais jouir…” he said into her neck. He was close.

“Je t'l'interdit!” she said. “I forbid it!” She stopped moving and let him go.

He groaned, and slapped her ass. She tried to move, but his grip tightened.

“I was a touch quick before,” he said, then he licked her earlobe. “As lovely as you are, that is inexcusable, chèrie. I promise to do meilleur cette foi-ci.” I will do better this time. His voice was a growl into her neck.

He gently pushed her on her back and caressed down her body, wrapping her leg around his hips. He rubbed himself against her until she was panting, then slid inside her, inch by inch, until the base of his cock stretched her to aching.

“Good?” he asked as he began to move inside her, slow.

“Yes.”

“Bien,” he said. She moved her hands down his back to his ass, down to the little crease where ass meets thigh. She traced, giving him a one-sided grin. He moved and she thought he meant to grab her wrists, but he just spread his legs to give her access.

“You are surprising, Jean.” She traced his lower lip, then pinched it, pulling him in for a kiss. She was beginning to feel it again – her orgasm was close, and she had not done nearly any of the things she wanted to do to him, for him. She put her middle finger into his mouth. He sucked it, wrapped his tongue around it, then continued to kiss her as she slid the saliva slick finger into his asshole.

He grunted into her mouth, but his rhythm increased. She was in him to the second knuckle. He was burning hot and fucking her harder than he had before, hard enough that she knew she would be sore for the next couple of days.

“Regarde-moi,” she said. Look at me.

She wanted to lick the sweat from his brow. His eyes were so lovely – there was no hint of hardness to him then, no suggestion of the secrets he kept. He was a slave to sensation, completely present with her.

She surprised herself by doing it. A forehead kiss turned to a discreet lick. She giggled and tightened around him, which he took for her coming. He grabbed her shoulders and fucked his whole cock into her, sinking his teeth into her neck.

She dug her fingers into his ass and felt the familiar trembling tightness. She breathed deep, tasted the ghost of his musk. Her orgasm wasn’t violent or loud – she did not cry out. It was pleasure deep in her brain, like the first sniff of cocaine.

He truly was a dangerous man, this Jean-François Mercier. Not only for her associates, but for her.

He lost his rhythm and moaned into her shoulder, finally finishing. She gently nudged his face to hers for a long kiss, letting him ride out his final tremors inside of her.

* * *

He helped zip up her dress.

“I will see you again soon?” he said, kissing her shoulder where her perfume had faded to a toothless amber.

“You are seeing me now,” she said. She sat down to smooth her stockings. “But, perhaps. It would be my pleasure.”

He poured himself a brandy, looking at her with frank lust. “You are a different breed of woman.”

“Woman, yes, but not breed. I am not a horse.”

He put down the snifter to buckle the little straps on her high heels. “I apologize if I upset you, mam'zelle.”

They stared at each other for a full minute, silently. His armor had returned, and she could feel a greater resolve in him than before. She traced the line of his jaw. Perhaps, if things were not as they were, she would suck every bit of sweetness from their chemistry. But she had work to do.

She gave him a coquettish grin. “May I, uh, take a moment?” she pointed to the lavatory. He waved his hand. She walked until out of sight, then ran to the bedroom, heels poised high for silence. She ran her hand underneath the pillow and felt only cool cotton.

_Scheiße!_

She knelt to look under the bed, but it was immaculately clean. Her heart beat faster, but her face was calm. Maybe it had fallen between the bed and the wall and gotten stuck there. She didn’t have time to check, so she ran back into the bathroom, flushed, and walked back to the sitting room to grab her bag.

“Thank you for your company,” he said, kissing her hand. His lips burned on the skin of her hand, near her wrist.

“Of course, Jean. Perhaps we will see each other soon.” She handed him a card with her telephone number written on it. “I must be off. I have an evening engagement.”

He opened the door for her. She walked down the stairs with a beatific smile, but she was calculating.

_Does he have a maid? Of course he does. What will she think when she changes the sheets and finds it? Will she tell? Will he know whose it was? She couldn’t be the only woman he’s had there in the last month. Impossible.  
_

The thought of his hips between her thighs made her smile sincere for a second. Why did she have such a fetish for Frenchmen? It was madness. She made her way across the front lawn and toward the street.

He opened the window. “Mam'zelle!”

She looked up and waved.

“You forgot something!” he said. He threw something, and faded into the shadows. It hissed past her head and stuck to the ground behind her. She looked down. The handle of the poisoned knife she had hidden underneath his pillow before the second time they made love rose above the meticulously trimmed grass.

She grabbed the Luger in her bag. Her muscles coiled, ready for fight or flight. He appeared at the front door, gaze steely, gun pointed at her.

The game was on, then. She ran.


End file.
